The Somnambulist

                                     

I've stared at a blank screen for several minutes trying to pigeonhole The Somnambulist into one genre or another, and it just isn't happening.

Any description would have to include the 'mystery' genre. Edward Moon, the main character is a detective. Not a professional but a part-time aficionado, he makes his bread-and-butter as a stage illusionist. In may ways he is a a literary tip of the hat to Sherlock Holmes.

Except of course, that  in place of Dr. Watson we have the Somnambulist, a giant hairless mute who consumes vast quantities of milk and is utterly impervious to swords and knives. 

There is also a time traveler, a Hannibal Lector-like figure behind bars, an albino secret agent, two supernatural killers, a plot to destroy London, a poet, a crippled young boy ala Tiny Tim, a bearded lady turned prostitute, a zombie, a religious movement, and, last but not least, a human fly.

Sure, it's a jumbled mess, but it's also a hoot. Jonathan Barnes does a wonderful job of keeping you enthralled with his London-that-never-was, and he takes great liberties with the format. To quote the first lines of the novel:

Be warned. This book has no literary merit whatsoever. It is a lurid piece of nonsense, convoluted, implausible, peopled by unconvincing characters, written in drearily pedestrian prose, frequently ridiculous and wilfully bizarre. Needless to say, I doubt you'll believe a word of it.

Or how about when he introduces a character:

 His death is a matter of pages away.

Please don't get attached to him. I've no intention of detailing his character at any length - he's insignificant, a walk-on, a corpse-in-waiting.

My favorite of these playful lines takes place on page 194, when the narrator interrupts a conversation momentarily with the following, then resumes the dialogue.

Later that evening, lulled by the rhythmic snoring of his wife, just as he was about to go to sleep, Inspector Merryweather would think of a rather amusing retort to this. But he would know that the moment had passed, and would roll over instead and hope for pleasant dreams.

Barnes will set up a scene, populate it with emotion and humor, and then abruptly have the narrator interrupt to admit it was wholly fabricated. It sounds like a technique that should wear on your nerves, but in limited doses it is cheekily amusing.

However, I do think Barnes got greedy near the end. I think he read over his draft, recognized a hit when he saw one, and left far too many points unresolved in hopes of leaving the door open for a sequel. A dirty rotten trick, on par with much of the book, but I'll gleefully read any sequel even so.

3 and a quarter stars out of 4, or 84 out of 100.